mirror
by ChangingOfTheSeasons
Summary: "Someone impossible, then?", she guesses, her eyes like a mirror, straightforward, gleaming and reflecting pensively. "Not Yukinoshita?" He gazes further away, uncomfortably, anywhere but towards her. "Maybe in another life, perhaps." Hachiman, Saki, and the difference between what is left unmentioned and what simply is.


**Disclaimer:** Of my possession, there is nothing except an overused laptop and an underused brain. Inspiration, unfortunately, does not come simply; hence, several pieces of literature will be referenced through the narrative quite haphazardly.

 **Pairing:** Hikigaya Hachiman/Kawasaki Saki/Yukinoshita Yukino

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mirror

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It was only a single step in the right direction on a particular autumn day. He'd never remembered it to be anything extraordinary. But you know, he was always the perennial loner and getting hit by that limousine to save that _stupid_ dog certainly didn't help fix stuff in his head.

Friends? Girlfriends? Ha, remember that girl from the wind instrument club - all night it took to make that anime CD compilation for her! Wait, never mind, it was a friend of a friend, right, wouldn't want to initiate any self-induced trauma, now, would we? Otagaya-kun, it was, Otagaya!

But there was something different about her, something a little mysterious, something much like him - even if he doesn't know it yet - and her name is Kawasaki Saki. Maybe it's because he'd never really talked to any girls before, perhaps, or it's that long, cobalt-tainted hair, dressed almost like a slut, as he describes it, with the top three buttons undone and her white shirt half tucked in. But something about the awkward conversation between two people, sat a fair distance from each other, that still captures his fascination.

They part from the rooftop as friends, the kind of friends two loners who've only talked for around half-a-lunchtime could possibly be, maybe closer to acquaintances. She's in class 1-A and he's in class 1-F, and they don't have any classes in common. But they encounter each other in the bustling hallways occasionally, always civil; his prejudice against 'nice girls' isn't enough to temper the even conversation on the rooftops and now, he knows better. She doesn't like him like that. She's just being civil.

After all, fool me once, shame on me, but fool me twice, shame on you.

His first year goes on, almost as if he hadn't met her. He didn't really make any more friends that year, and science and maths were just going _swimmingly_ for him. Those damn riajuus who choose to glorify their youth by fooling around beneath lies and secrets and failures just disgust me, he writes with a final flourish of his pen.

* * *

And in second year, despite his slight diversions (that coincidentally lead him to the doors that lead to the rooftop), he still gets dragged to the Service Club. Damn unmarried bitch. And so, life goes on, and associates himself with Yuigahama and Yukinoshita, as he narrowly avoids dying from food poisoning, and contemplates suicide approximately twenty-seven times in one night as he crawls through the trash that is Zaimokuza's manuscript.

So when he meets that bug, Kawasaki Taishi, with his dear imouto, Komachi, after his blood-curdling siscon rage subsides, he explains his concern for his Onee-chan; she's coming home late every night. And suddenly, he feels a sudden obligation, something compelling in this request. And so, with what composure remains in one of his 108 skills - Poker Face - he _calmly_ asserts his compliance, oh so _reluctantly_ , he believes.

Thus, the maid cafe beckons, and after witnessing the work of art that is Yukinoshita Yukino in a maid costume - he is a hormonal teenager, he'll admit - they find their way to the Angel Ladder Cafe. And while he fumbles and struggles in his pressed suit and gelled hair, he doesn't notice the particularly searching gaze from Kawasaki, as she supposedly cleans a wine glass behind the counter.

Cinderella beckons for her glass slippers, and as the night enters its midst, he lingers for only but a moment as he whispers such romantic overtures:

Meet me at the Wac. Midnight.

And even though her shift's _technically_ not over, maybe it's time she got off work a bit early. Follow the law for once.

(That's what she says to herself, anyways.)

And here comes the Spanish Inquisition! At a goddamn Wac, she mutters to herself, as she first sees the Service Club, Taishi and some other girl, circled around a table, with a jumble of tired fries and straw-topped drinks spread across.

Surprise calls. What are you all doing here, she asks. And then it unwinds, as a guilt floods back all over again. Making her brother worry. Making her parents worry. Making him worr- what is this, a rom-com? None of those cheesy lines here!

And what remains of her tattered independence rebuilds again with one word.

Scholarship.

There was always another way, and in the span of about fifteen minutes, she had her purpose denigrated and given back all over again.

Thank you, she wants to say, but doesn't. Everyone's nearby, and she doesn't want to be more of a bother than she already has been. And somehow, she senses that her misplaced gratitude, for someone who just tried to convince her to quit her job, wouldn't be fully received. And so, as she drags her feet along, Taishi keeping step, the least she could do was be grateful to everyone that had helped her.

* * *

The time traverses forth, and they build their budding acquaintance in secret, over occasional and complacent texts - and she actually buys a mobile phone. But no-one does know, and to honest, he doesn't really care too much as to why. Kawasaki's a mix of the dry, sharp wit of Yukinoshita and a prickly irritance but also something else, a flicker of a flame - but it never feels vicious as she casually reproaches him for his unmaintained hair.

The Athletics Carnival comes and goes, and so do her second-year exams, a renewed vigour as Kawasaki pours over formulae and other conjectures, whatever they all mean. She's been selfish for long enough to burden her parents, and these rivers of text are ships to guide her across to what is necessary.

She gets the results she wants and gets the scholarship she's worked for - and once again, she feels indebted to Hikigaya. But one of those days, when she mentions it frankly, he just dismisses it.

I didn't do it for you, he says, I was requested to. (But something tells him that's not entirely true.)

But as she watches the fireworks burst from outside the windows of the apartment, her parents still at work, there's something impossibly beautiful, impossibly distant, beyond her reach, this year of all years.

They talk to each other over the summer, and there's something enchanting about how she talks - a conciseness, words crafted like twine upon a loom - she doesn't use a haughty diction like Yukinoshita, but he thinks she does not need to.

Parents gone, being pulled to a camp full of prepubescent children or having to deal with irritating siblings: there's no need to affirm anything or prove anything to each other. He's still the loner, he doesn't have many expectations for who could be described as just someone he knows. But they're both glad that there seems to be a casual respect for the other, no pedestal or ladder to climb over.

From Soubu to Tokyo, they go, and when it all returns, there's a sullen quality beneath his composed visage. She'd heard rumours of his 'confession'. But she doesn't judge. She doesn't interfere. She just doesn't know how to help, and so she does little more than sit quietly on the same rooftop they always have.

It's sometime after the trip that she begins to wonder. They're both in the same class now and she wonders if he fancies a certain redhead, because they seem to both be down and perhaps there's something further he wishes to amend (she doesn't care who he likes, just curious). But for all her curiosity, she doesn't notice his own observations, to where his weary gaze fleets, and how she's supposed to compare to someone like _her._

She is not talking about a cheerful red-haired classmate.

* * *

And so he begins being somewhat ostracized by everyone, not that he had many who'd hadn't already. But even those who might, don't know that he sneaks off to the rooftop occasionally to cleanse his burdened mind, to meet Kawasaki Saki. They do not kiss, or touch, or rendezvous as lovers do, but merely talk in a manner they have never previously. He thinks that there is something ethereal, something beautiful as her hair shines with the glint of the sun's glare, or as it compares with the woven clouds in one of his more chunnibyou moments.

Her eyes glint in a pulsing violet, a colour he has never witnessed in such vibrancy, as their conversations become easy, free-flowing; they dance between subjects, flitting between their studies, to their siblings, and she can make him grin ever so slightly with her biting wit, in a way that Yuigahama's incessant friendliness or Yukionshita's piercing repartees cannot.

Eventually, the Student Elections begin, and it is during one of their lunchtime meetings that he asks whether she'd want to join the Service Club; she just looks to the distant sky and shakes her head softly. He does not push - he can understand her decision, even if there's something _certain_ about her presence that he appreciates - and they pass the rest of the time in relative silence. And somehow, he feels as though he's bared more of his soul that day, despite saying nothing at all.

But on a winter's evening, as the sun slowly stains orange in its quiet departure, during that Christmas event Keika's been bustling about for, as she walks beyond the gates of the school, a voice rings out somewhere from her left.

Kawasaki.

She whirls around, facing him, but before she can reply, he adds:

Not here, as he seems to swallow his throat before he can release the words.

And so they go where they've always gone. School's been over for a few hours now, and she wonders how long he's been waiting there for, but the door is unlocked as always, and as the creaking of metallic hinges pierce the background, there's something poignant about his silence, something he wants to say, and all she can do is wait.

I want to make a request.

Isn't this something you should be asking the Service Club?

No, he responds briefly, the word stretching out in the breeze.

I know I'm speaking selfishly.. But… There's something I can't accept… there's always something left unsaid, something left out.

Something genuine.

* * *

It is only on a knife's edge, on wretched forgiveness, that he retains these superficial bonds, and he loathes himself for being so hypocritical. But it is now that he _sees_ Yukinoshita Yukino. It is not when she insults himself, a slight grin on her face, as they express their perpetual banter. It is not even when the coaster plummets over the slope, and she asks him to save her, reminding him once again that she too is not immovable.

No, he notices her when the night is late, and he is thinking of other things. The stars glisten above them, the light dancing in her eyes the way a subtle amusement does, as they walk quietly towards her apartment, away from her mother. He'd always known she was pretty, far more than a narcissistic Ice Queen bitch deserved to be, and he knows that there are many men out there in the world that find her beautiful, from the many a confession.

Therein, he thinks, lies his problem.

Yukinoshita Yukino is like a gleaming star, radiant in her path.

Kawasaki Saki is beautiful, _seen._

She notices his observances. How could she not, with only the two of them walking by? She wished that she would not have to rely on him, that she would not need to trust in him, that she would not be admired by him. She is weak, unable to break free from her expectations, her burdens. And yet, despite all of her arrogance and her convictions, she has to rely on him, and the thought drowns her in a embroiled mixture of guilt and uncertainty.

The thought does not bother as much as it used to, though. There is an _character_ to their banter and woe to admit, there are _some_ admirable qualities in Hikigaya-kun, qualities that she does not possess which she herself can admire also. (But not that many, only a _very_ limited few, she thinks to herself).

* * *

He still meets her atop the roof once a week, and there is still that easiness which he has never been disinterested or frustrated by. One moment, they talk of the most inconsequential things from updated recipes in his quest to be a house-husband, to their favourite colour (her colour is black, and his colour is a blue that definitely doesn't match her lustrous hair), the next subject more serious - exams are looming or she's entered an argument with her mother.

One of these moments, their conversation turns to romance - not between them, of course, never that.

You know, there are a fair few girls chasing after you nowadays, she says, her voice lilting with a brutal honesty and something else he can not identify. I saw when that girl from the other school said she was giving you chocolate. I saw the look on their faces.

There is a brief pause, as she seems to recollect her thoughts and as he overcomes his shock.

Why won't you let someone help you?

He is silent, a long and poignant noiselessness as he considers his response.

I don't want any of them, he says, opting for a careful truth.

Got your hooks in on someone else, then, Hikigaya?, she asks, using his last name as always.

You could say that, he replies, looking anywhere but at her.

Someone impossible, then?, she guesses, her mind like a mirror, straightforward, gleaming and reflecting pensively.

Not Yukinoshita?

He gazes further away, uncomfortably, anywhere but towards her.

Maybe in another life, perhaps.

She is silent, not replying until the bell sharply rings for them to head back to class. She doesn't mutter her quiet goodbyes, not with words, but brushes ever so lightly against him as she walks out, so featherlight almost as if he'd imagined the whole thing.

* * *

The rest of the year proceeds pretty much as it would have - they never return to that conversation, they never reverse the topic to her love life, and he makes it his goal to fulfil Yukinoshita's request.

What was left of any stability crumbles down; he's entered a world beyond his expectation, beyond his comprehension, something of politics and something of verbal manoeuvring.

Motionless, he stands still; never feeling more useless or futile. Why wasn't he doing something? Why couldn't he move a single step? Why couldn't he says a single word?

Yukinoshita had planned a school ball, and he had always known that her mother would deign to interfere with such a mere ball, and he makes no delusions as to why.

Fascination or not, he has grown a need to help her, to repay her, to thank her for what she has done for him. And so, as she walks away, towards _that_ limousine, arm in arm with Hayama, dressed beautifully, as he'd never seen before, in something of periwinkle and satin, a brittleness in her visage, there is then _something._

There are no reassurances, no grand romantic gestures, merely a nod, from one lunchtime acquaintance to another, yet they have long surpassed the stage of needing words to converse.

And suddenly, he finds that _something._

He rushes out, anxiously, frantic, senseless, desperate. Yuigahama, noticing, observant, gazes quietly at the scene, with a mixture of confusion and acceptance, moving side by side with Kawasaki to follow what they have been inextricably connected to.

And the car which strikes her as she pushes him away, was something he remembered from his nightmares.

* * *

Saki is beautiful, even in death, even with her lustrous cobalt hair stained with blood, faded by the dying sunlight. No-one has closed her eyes - a fucking travesty considering they are now a dull grey instead a piercing violet.

She will never again weave her words in mocking tones, she will never mutter Hikigaya, with a silent tenderness unacknowledged by either of them.

His life without her is like a broken mirror - through her, he could find himself, but now, what remains are sharp edges and broken pieces; he would fix it if he could, but to try to fix a jagged heart is a cruelty in itself.

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End file.
